Blunt Force Trauma
by Green-eyed Grinch
Summary: Rukia corners Renji for one of his more infuriating habits. Renji thinks she's got pretty crappy timing. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_Split into two parts due to length, as requested. :)_

After a marathon Bleach session, this fic began nibbling at my heels. Takes place a couple of months after Rukia's rescue from Soul Society, and post the second OVA. Enjoy! And as always, reviews and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

**Summary:** Rukia corners Renji for one of his more infuriating habits. Renji thinks she's got pretty crappy timing. Rated T for language.

**Blunt Force Trauma**

* * *

He nearly makes it to the end of the week, this time.

Looking back, he supposes the first warning signs should have been evident in the almost organised manner with which Ichigo managed to dispatch the night's first Hollow. Nevermind the way he - almost - bought it. He is no longer sure which days surprise him more – those that go according to plan, or ones like today. What he does know, with a certainty that can only come from mounting firsthand experience, is that the universe is fucking with him. Again.

"You weigh a shit-ton, you know that?"

A rough hand balances him as he sways. The blackness in his vision is replaced with too-bright orange light and equally offensive orange hair. He lifts a hand with a curse, shielding his eyes against the sudden glare and the ever-present scowl with an arm that feels like it's come between Yumichika and his favourite eyeliner.

"Seriously," Ichigo grunts as he deposits him on the nearest chair. "Could be a great time to lay off the junk food."

The pissed-off growl he musters in response to the deliberately laid bait is a poor effort and they both know it. Regardless, it renders a barked laugh from the substitute shinigami in front of him. "Yeah, yeah, die in a fire. I got it." Ichigo's finger lingers a moment longer on the light switch before he jabs it point blank between his eyes. "Whatever. Stay put. If you bleed to death all over the floor the midget'll kill me."

There's a pause, a snort, and he actually sees the moment the kid fails to resist his parting shot of, "Like you could go anywhere the state you're in. _Idiot._"

Renji lets his head thud to the table, fighting to keep his food down with the abrupt change in altitude; as if he doesn't get a hard enough time about freeloading without losing his mooched lunch all over Kisuke Urahara's floor. He hears Ichigo ranting to himself as he wanders off, calling for the shop's owner in between bitching about rescuing damsels in his homework time, and it's all he can do to fight gravity as he prepares for the final nail to be hammered into the coffin of his pride. Maybe if he starts crawling now he can escape before-

"Renji!"

Ah, hell.

He rolls his head toward the voice, feels his spine do something unpleasant as a result, and squints against a shower of dust that dislodges itself from his hair. The face that materialises inches from his is a pale blur framed in black, but he knows the deceptively tiny silhouette almost as well as his own.

"Oi, Rukia."

"Don't '_Oi, Rukia'_ me." The hand that hovers near his face is small, gentle as it settles on what it decides is a safe spot. Commanding as it coaxes his head this way and that to get a better look at the carnage. "What did you do to yourself?"

Her voice bears a hint of trepidation, suggesting she isn't really sure she wants to know. He grins crookedly, more to do with the cracked jaw than any real intent. "Y'want the dull version or the highlights?"

The fake bravado is ruined by the slur to his words, and Rukia sighs. "Why do I suspect they both end with Ichigo dragging you half-dead back to Urahara's store in the middle of the night?"

"Not quite how I planned it," he grumbles.

"It never is."

Her fingers trace a cut on his neck before sliding into his tangled mop of hair, carefully tugging it free of its tie as she hunts through the chaotic strands for the source of the blood. The sensation is almost pleasant until she stumbles across the culprit at the base of his skull, and what he has managed to scrape together of his dignity dissolves into a string of expletives.

"_Fuck_, Rukia!" He swats at her. "Give it a rest, will ya? That's my head, not a slab of meat!"

He is told repeatedly he speaks without thinking. It is just as frequently his outbursts backfire on him. This time is no exception as Rukia's hand snaps back, and there is a frozen moment where her eyes are wide enough for him to see the surprise, irritation, and something else he can't quite pinpoint all at once. A moment later it barricades itself behind a wall of upper class conditioning.

Instantly, he regrets opening his mouth. Barely two months since Rukia's failed execution and the events at Soul Society are still fresh in their minds. Not once has he allowed himself to linger on how abruptly they have been tossed back into each other's lives, lest the fickle powers that be mistake it for a complaint. Moments like these are a cautionary reminder: though it is as if someone has turned the dial back to a less complicated time in their friendship, it is easy to forget that while he has spent the past forty years brawling his way up the ranks, he is equally responsible for helping to usher her down a different path. A naivety he is bitterly reminded of each time she hides behind that infuriatingly Kuchiki mask.

He drops the wrist he has grabbed on impulse, fumbles a sheepish apology, and scowls down at a seeping tear in his thigh. Ever the dog with its tail between its legs, he is almost too late to realise the energy spent sulking would have been put to better use keeping himself upright.

A hand comes out of the haze in his vision to brace his chest against the back of the chair. There is a swish of cloth as Rukia stoops to better prop him up, stubbornly re-establishing herself in his line of sight. He feels himself saturated by healing kidou, and he swallows down any further complaint as he is - gently, reprimandingly - smacked over the head.

"You certainly _look _like a lump of meat. Now quit being a baby."

He glances up at her through a web of red, and can't resist a chuckle at the nostalgic expression that has found its way onto her face. It is one that has been painfully absent for decades, that every time draws him back to the dusty shitheap of his childhood, chastises him for being a naive fool as he eternally connects the wrong dots, and makes him want for more.

"Yeah, yeah." The grin skips boyish and borders on manic in its enthusiasm, but he doesn't care - this is the Rukia he should have encouraged. "My head's a giant fucking steak. Y'weren't there, though. Wait till ya see the other guy."

Rukia rolls her eyes, but can't keep the fond edge from slipping through the cracks as she mutters a token, "Idiot." It is the second time he has been called that tonight; he is sure it won't be the last. "Sit still and let me take a good look at you. You can't be hurt too badly if your testosterone is still running unchecked."

"Hard to brain damage someone with a skull that thick," a voice chimes in. "And for the record, he's definitely in worse shape than the other guy."

"Now, now, Kurosaki-san. That's hardly a nice thing to say to someone bleeding all over the floor." Urahara's voice is like silk on sandpaper from where he appears with Ichigo. "Why _are_ you bleeding all over my floor, Abarai-san?"

Renji knows that tone. It's the one that promises he'll be on mop and bucket duty for the next century.

"Can't wait to hear this one." Ichigo flips a chair around and parks himself on it backwards. He is still in his shinigami attire, Zangetsu strapped across his back. Renji can't help but notice he seems more comfortable now than in his own skin. It doesn't mean he approves of the kid getting him out of a tight spot, especially not when the expression he wears is one of such blatant sarcasm.

Rukia's look between them should be warning enough. "Do I want to hear this?"

"Sure you do. Because _I_ want to see you tear him a new one. How the hell did you get to be a Lieutenant with shit for brains, Renji?"

He is struck with the familar urge to grind the boy's head into the floor. He has no doubt he would be if he could tell which of the three Ichigos is the real one. "Shut up," he growls lamely in response, trying and failing to pick pieces of gravel out of a gash on his arm. "If I had a dollar for every time a Hollow got the jump on someone I'd be pissing money."

"So your bankai just up and unleashes itself, that it? In the basement. _Of a condemned fucking warehouse. _The hell did you think'd happen?"

"Pretty damn sure of himself for someone with his back to the action, don't ya think?"

"I might have been occupied, but I can think of better ways to distract Hollow from a group of kids than bringing the whole damn building down on top of us!"

"Says the man who routinely carves up buildings on his own-"

"-Not when I'm _in_ them!-"

"-An' the hell do you mean 'us'?" he snaps, giving up on his arm and devoting his dwindling concentration to his defense. He glares and flaps his shredded sleeve emphatically. "Last time I checked the building pancaked _me_ while you were off playin' babysitter. I don't see what you're getting so bent out of shape about!"

Ichigo rocks his chair forward onto two legs, annoyed. "Because I spent half the evening digging you out of rubble, nearly an hour consoling a bunch of kids, and just as long carting your fat ass back here! And now the midget is probably going to spend the rest of the evening drawing us shitty diagrams lecturing us about how, if she had been there, this shit never would have happened! Right, Rukia?"

_Next time I will pancake him_, Zabimaru huffs.

Renji's lips twitch absently, but his attention is drawn back to the elephant in the room.

She is holding a small piece of rubble plucked from out of his hair, her expression thoughtful as she rolls it between her fingers. For once she appears to be resisting the urge to referee their banter. Her other hand is still to his chest, the light cast from the healing kidou bouncing eerily off her features, and through the blurriness in his vision he is unsure if the glow is flattering or vaguely sinister. The silence steers him toward the latter. It is a technique commonly used by his Captain to make he and his subordinates sweat, after all; that she has mastered it so aptly is another mark on Kuchiki Byakuya's grave, and a comparsion he draws reluctantly.

"Midget?" Ichigo is like a dog with a bone.

A flutter of black is the only warning they get before the piece of debris rockets across the room. Ichigo squawks, shoves backward to dodge the tiny projectile, and the chair he balances on topples. He crashes to the ground.

"What the hell, Rukia?!"

Renji is about to crow his approval at her choice of target practise, but thinks better of it as Rukia's gaze hones in on him, and he knows from the set to her jaw that she's onto him. A moment later he too is flat on his back, wheezing and glaring up the nostrils of the diminutive woman towering over him through the spots in his vision. Her eyes are narrowed to demonic slits. He has been on the receiving end of this look countless times in the past, and has suffered through one too many horror movies since coming to the World of the Living to expect this to end well.

His saving grace, of all things, comes in the form of a slow clap from the doorway.

"Quite the show, wouldn't you say?" The shadow cast by Urahara's hat hides just enough of his face to gauge his level of amusement, but the woman now slouched lazily against his shoulder makes no such secret of her mirth.

"For me. Seems like a dangerous night to have balls." Yoruichi's voice is light, as always. "Better watch yourself, Kisuke."

"Hm. All the same. Kuchiki-san? Please refrain from redecorating _too_ much of my home with Abarai-san's insides. I rather like that rug, and I wouldn't want to have to pawn your gigai to recoup the costs."

Anyone else might be wary of the threat under such a jab, but Rukia doesn't miss a beat. "After what happened with the last one, you should be paying me."

"Oh?"

Urahara's sanguine stare marches boldly onward, and with it Rukia's homicidal rampage is momentarily aborted. It doesn't mean Renji dares to remove her foot from his sternum. The floor is as good a place as any to bleed, and if he can creatively ruin some of the slave driving shinigami's décor while he's at it, then he might even call the evening a draw. He watches benignly instead as Yoruichi pushes off the shopkeeper's shoulder and wanders over, crouching beside him and whistling appreciatively as she picks at his ruined shihakushō.

"Hope you're good with whites and delicates."

He jerks his chin, instantly regretting it as the room spins. "Your sweatshop-owning buddy over there's made sure of that."

"You can't mean me, surely?"

Yoruichi cackles at Urahara's coy wasp of his fan. "Pick on him when he can fight back, Kisuke." She leans in a bit and sniffs. "Dumpster or trash heap?"

He has given up hiding how bizarre he finds it that her more feline aspects roll over in this form, knowing full well she gets a kick out of expressing such oddities. "Nothing quite like rotting trash bags to break your fall," he drawls. That, and there's no sense in denying it, especially not with a witness out for his blood in the same room.

"The padding's not much use to you if you're going to plant an entire warehouse on your skull. Still!" She extends a hand. "They just don't make buildings like they used to, huh?" The wince she affords seems genuine, and Renji wonders what club he just joined as he regards the distant glimmer in her eye.

The wisecrack on the tip of his tongue dies as he is hauled to his feet. The events of the evening catch up with him, causing the world to shift around him unpleasantly. He feels like a half empty bottle as what seems like his remaining blood drains from his face and sloshes somewhere about his ankles. It is with detached interest he notices his vision is going dim, and he can't help but feel dizzy relief: if he passes out soon he will be blissfully ignorant to whatever punishment Rukia dishes out.

"Dumb-ass doesn't know when to call it quits," someone scoffs to his right.

"You're one to talk. Might want to give up on the rug, Kisuke. I think it's done for."

"It was an antique, too," Hat-and-clogs whines theatrically.

"_We're_ antiques and I was never particularly fond of it. If you ask me, he's doing you a favour."

"I can't help my eclectic taste, there's no need to be cruel!" Even sounding miles away, Urahara's switch in demeanour borders on the bipolar. "I suppose it can't be helped. Give her a hand with him, Kurosaki-san, let's find him someplace more comfortable. I think he's had enough grief from us for the moment."

"More-than. Careful, down he goes."

He vaguely recalls hearing a collective gasp and a commotion around him, then his vision goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two:_

* * *

He wakes to the sound of hushed bickering and the smell of grape candy.

"Leave it alone, already! If you pile on any more blankets you're going to crush the bones he hasn't broken!"

"I just want him to be comfortable."

"He won't get a chance if you don't shut up and stop fussing with the blankets, stupid."

"I'm not stupid, and I'm not fussing," someone insists sulkily. "His arm was poking out, and—ow, Jinta! That hurt!"

"What part of 'shut up' don't you get?!"

He burrows his head deeper into the pillow with a groan. He isn't sure of its purpose, and he certainly doesn't approve of how pathetic it sounds, but the pounding in his head isn't disappointed by the abrupt silence that falls over the room because of it.

"Freeloader-san?" The blankets rustle and dip as someone light kneels beside him.

It is a gentle prompt. Renji reluctantly squints open eyelids that are gummy from dust and fatigue, and concentrates on getting them to focus on the small figure silhouetted by the lamplight. It takes him a moment longer than it should as his body makes him aware of several aches and pains that he swears weren't there before. When his vision clears, Ururu is peering back at him in that unsettlingly owlish way of hers, aided in part by a pair of obscenely still pigtails. Not for the first time he wonders how she manages to move so swiftly and silently without so much as disturbing a hair on her head. One of that Quincy's earlier conspiracy theories pops to mind, but he quickly shelves that notion; he is pretty sure accusing the girl of being a robot is high on the list of things that will very quickly get him booted out of his current accomodations.

"Welcome back. We were worried."

"No we weren't!" From nowhere a fist plants itself square in the girl's shoulder. Ururu yelps a most un-robotic yelp, cradling her arm as flaming red hair and a gravity-defying cowlick periscope into sight. "Now look what you've done. Does he look like he wants to be awake right now, Ururu? Jeez!"

Renji winces, half in sympathy and half at the volume. He tries to wave his hand in a peacemaking gesture, but it is trapped under a small mountain of gaudy blankets that look like they belong – and probably do – in a young girl's bedroom. "Cut it out, brat," he mumbles groggily, wrestling to free himself as he scrambles to recall the most basic tactics for preventing all-out sibling war. "She's just trying to help."

"She's just annoying, is what," Jinta insists, abandoning his assault and rounding on him. "And you sound like crap. Can't you go a week without getting your ass handed to you?"

Renji knows better than to take the barrage at face value. Even in the near dark it is easy to see the discrepancy between the wild glint in the boy's eyes and his tightly crossed arms. The empty candy wrappers and discarded soda cans littering the floor alone are enough to tell him they have been camped here for awhile. He knows he should have reason to be concerned that the duo have raided Urahara's wares – the last time he remembers being subjected to these two all hopped up on sugar, his zanpakuto had been covered in crude drawings and dyed pink under conveniently mysterious circumstances, and Zabimaru hadn't shut up about it for days – but he can't help but realise the current candy binge is his own fault. The thought is ironic enough, but it doesn't stop a pang of guilt from surfacing; he has scared them again, and it is something he will pay dearly for later.

For now, it is better to deny the occurance of the sugar-laden vigil - he has learnt the hard way that to acknowledge the existance of Jinta's concern in front of another soul is to awaken a world of hurt.

"Maybe I'd be able to if this shop weren't a fucking trouble magnet," he grouses, opting for a more proven method instead: tormenting Jinta into distraction. He knows the boy won't miss the chance to raise his hackles at such an obvious insult. "I never got my ass kicked so much before I came here."

"Maybe you should stop eating our food, then." Jinta feigns casual disinterest. "You get slow if you get fat, and you go back for seconds almost every damn meal."

Like a charm. It is no doubt Kenpachi's brief influence that has him more comfortable with crude insults than displays of concern. He curls his lip. "Are you trying to give me an eating disorder, you little shit?"

"Just sayin' maybe you should take the hint."

"I don't think you can get fat if you're a shinigami," Ururu pipes up, helpfully.

"Shut up, stupid, what would you know? Haven't you seen that porker Omaeda?"

Ururu ducks her head, turtling into silence at the bullying. Renji is struck with the suicidal urge to encourage her to challenge her live-in brother once in awhile. He begins to sit up, and Ururu switches from meek to nervous in a flash, fidgeting worriedly.

"You shouldn't move too much yet. Tessai-san's kidou hasn't finished its work. I can give you another pillow if it'll help?" She procures a spare cushion from her pile, every inch of which is liberally smothered with the same emasculating bunny pattern he is currently buried under, and he wonders when the hell they decided it was a good idea to let Rukia participate in arts and crafts hour.

He waves her off stubbornly. It is no small feat to lever himself up onto his elbow, and one he manages only due to the fact the pillows stuffed underneath him have done most of the work. He pauses halfway to give his head time to catch up, and it's then he becomes acutely aware of a third reiatsu in the room. His eyes drift past the small fort of empty candy wrappers to where Rukia is perched on a mat a bit apart from them. Her hakama is fanned immaculately over her frame, legs cushioned neatly beneath her body, and her hands are crossed daintily atop her knees. Everything about her outward appearance is calm, reserved, but Renji swears the moment she levels her gaze with him the temperature in the room plummets.

Ignoring the alarm bells going off in his head, not to mention the begrudging thought that it is surely cheating for her to use her shikai for such low blow intimidation tactics, he flashes his teeth disarmingly. "Keep ya waiting long?"

"You've been out for a day."

A silence follows – frosty on her part, uneasy on his. At the tail end of it he is not sure whether to credit Jinta for knowing when to make himself scarce, or accuse him of leaving a wounded man behind as five seconds flat has the boy scrambling to his feet, bundling his remaining candy stash in his arms, and dragging his protesting sidekick out of the room forcibly by her wrist. He catches the sly comment about having to clean the blood off the floor in here too when Rukia is done with him, and any guilt he has for making the boy worry is long gone as the door to the room slams shut with a tactless thud, trapping him inside.

"You used yourself as a meat shield again, didn't you."

Renji resists the urge to squirm like a caged animal as he turns back to the sole remaining occupant of the room. Her voice lacks the blunt humour that is a regular fixture of their post-trauma pantomime, and there is something foreign in its place. Whatever it is causes her eyes to bore unflinchingly into his, daring him to deny it. He blinks, confused, and comforts himself with the thought that waking up to an angry Kuchiki when you're not immediately sure what you've done wrong is enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

"Well?"

He rubs at the back of his head. Acts of heroism were nothing he ever thought too hard about after – or during – the occasion, and being called out on such a deed makes him feel distinctly awkward at the best of times, not least of all when she is looking at him like _that. _He shrugs dismissively. "You heard the kid. May as well use this extra padding from Urahara's food toward something useful."

The joke goes down like Rangiku on too much sake, and he supposes with his current track record he shouldn't be surprised. Rukia's hands unravel from their resting place, palms slapping the mat beside her as she snaps forward.

"You're so destructive! What's wrong with you?"

He jerks backward, instantly on the back foot at the accusation. "... _Wrong_ with me?"

"Yes! Wrong. With you! How many times are you going to put yourself on the line doing something so reckless?"

He feels a prickle of anger. "Hey! It's not like I went into battle with the intention of being used as a pincushion!"

"Oh?" Her brows arch a fraction higher, accurate as a fuse on a bomb. From his vantage point he estimates he's got one, maybe two more slip-ups before he's in real trouble. He does a quick mental tally of his remaining limbs. "I'm not deaf, Renji. The only time Ichigo gets worked up like that is when someone he cares about does something as stupid as he does. And by far the most _idiotic _thing Ichigo does is get reckless when he's backed into a corner!"

_Indirect criticism. That's basically three. _

_Nice knowing you._

His ego points out to him that he should be busy resenting that comparison, but his foggy brain is still trying to catch up with current events. Such explosions from Rukia are common; insightful ones are not. He is not sure where this is coming from, why she thinks post head trauma is such a stellar time to try and extract sense from him, and even less sure how to respond as her guarded glare gives way to something even more baffling. What he _is_ painfully aware of is that he is her captive audience, and this is the determining factor in him easing off his typical hotheaded approach in search of a method that might – miraculously - prolong his survival.

He calls the recent battle to mind, sifting through the gaps in his memory. Pictures Ichigo juggling an armful of panicking children along with Zangetsu, struggling to get enough distance between he and the group of Hollow. Recalls unleashing his bankai to scoop the trio into Zabimaru's maw, avoiding disaster with very little time to spare before leveraging them to safety with his zanpakuto several cero-damaged floors above. After that it had been easy: slow down or stop the Hollow in their tracks by any means necessary to allow Ichigo time to get everyone to safety, or have the deaths of some kids on his conscience. In the end there had been no decision to make, and he has little doubt he would do the same again.

"It's my job, Rukia," he states eventually, knowing it isn't quite the truth. Such behaviour is ingrained in him just like it is in her, but saying so out loud makes him a dead man. Again. "They were just kids. The hell was I supposed to do?"

It is a valid argument, and one he is surprised he even has to make – paint-by-numbers logic is generally her forte. He can see her studying him, trying to fault his stumble into common sense, and can tell by the subtle narrowing of her eyes the moment a hint of sanity returns to her. He takes the symptomatic glare to mean that she understands she is being irrational. Good, he thinks. He doesn't hold his breath that he's off the hook, but he crosses his fingers that she at least knows she's a fucking hypocrite; with her noble ties and shinigami status she is far more familiar with duty than he.

When she finally answers she has deflated some, and if he doesn't know any better he swears her voice is contrite. "I'm not asking you not to do your job."

"Bullshit, Rukia. Sounds like that's exactly what you're asking."

"It's not your _job _to get cut down every five minutes!" Her voice raises in pitch as she visibly wars for calm. Despite himself, he very nearly grins - a childish part of him prides himself in the rare moments he can so easily undo her composure. The weight to her voice quickly squashes his amusement. For all her plain-spokenness, the skittish, wide-eyed look behind the wall of outwardly projected fury reminds him that now is not the time to deliberately get under her skin. He has enough respect for her that he doesn't dare patronise her by laughing in her face. This, apparently, isn't one of the occasions he can just opt for the knuckle dusting and be done with it.

"Are you even listening?" She scowls. "Honestly, Renji, it wouldn't kill you to go into something and plan to come out of it in one piece, for once! And nevermind that—" Her mouth snaps compulsively shut, her cheeks bulging almost comically as she screws up her face. She looks for all the world like she just ate something disgusting, and Renji gathers sardonically she, in that noble way, now realises she has bitten of more than she should emotionally chew.

"Forget it," she finishes abruptly, readying herself to leave. "Where are those two with Urahara?"

The exasperation is genuine, but the rest is a blatant effort to save face, and one he is familiar with - she has never been good at wearing her heart on her sleeve just like he has never been good at receiving it, preferring to rant or otherwise beat her opinion into someone to drive it home. Knowing when she is upset is easy; deciphering what is behind her aggression before the casualties mount is the hard part. This is how he knows that whatever words she choked on have to be worth hearing: the irritation that is plain as day on her face is abating before his eyes into self-fulfilled calm without so much as a well placed uppercut. He holds no delusions as to whether she is holding back for his sake - she would crush a bedridden man if she felt he deserved it.

The more masochistic side of him is piqued, even with self preservation at a record low. "No, not 'forget it'." He rolls onto his side to better face her, ignoring protesting muscles and an ego that he has no doubt he'll have to nurse later as he carefully prompts, "Nevermind what?"

Even smoothing off the rough edges, trying to keep his voice low and uncharacteristically gentle – or maybe because of it – it is her turn to avoid his eyes. As she glances between he and the door it is obvious she is weighing up the dangers of opening her mouth any further, and he clamps down on the urge to force her hand; for once he is wise enough to tread lightly, fearful that if he pushes he'll scare her into clamming up and hiding again in that safe, apathetic place where nobles go when things get too hard.

"_Stupid." _It is so soft he almost wonders if he is hearing things, but he can count on one hand the times he has heard her voice teeter between equal measures upset and scalding. She yanks an insubordinate crease out of her uniform as her knees drop back to the floor. "Don't you get it? Not everyone wants you jumping in harm's way for them."

The words sting, and he's not immediately sure why.

Then denial kicks in, and for a heartbeat he thinks she _knows_. His thoughts race to his Captain, to Ichigo, to wondering how much one or both of them have told her about his own motivations, and to how many creative ways he can think of to string them up by their balls. He is already a mile down his laundry list of pre-conceived excuses with no decent candidates when he finally takes in her posture. Her head is angled somewhere between denial and defeat, a contrast to her rod straight shoulders - so tense he can see the tendons where they dip beneath the collar of her kosode. Her lips are sealed into a thin bloodless line, but it is her fingers, buried so fiercely in the cloth over her knees that they are almost invisible, which make him realise: he has _seen _this from her before.

A string of memories click. The most recent has him moving before he even knows what he is doing, Zabimaru roaring in his head for his gall; of sharp, piercing pain throughout his body accompanied by a sense of accomplishment and dumbfounded relief; a shriek of horrified disbelief behind him, and the sound of two zanpakutos cluttering forgotten to the rubble as he is tugged into her lap. He still remembers the feel of her fingers clenching bruisingly to his shoulders, and it is a dead ringer for the way they are now. She had called him all the names under the sun when it was all over, as he sat pandering to the ministrations of Unohana's Squad in the dirt. After that it had been the cold shoulder and the silent treatment for a month with no clues as to why. Until now.

The unintended bite to her words eases and he drops his head back to the pillow, regarding her sidelong through half-lidded eyes. She is his oldest friend. Despite her often reserved behaviour, he has been at her side long enough to know when she is frustrated solely at him, and when part of it is at herself. Her sometimes maddening need to stand on her own two feet has taken a bruising of late, and he knows first-hand how it feels to work yourself to the bone, to be tunnel-visioned with something for so long, only to have those you care about suffer in your place as you are sidelined when it counts.

Alarm is stomped out by relief. If this means she doesn't know about his own foolish crusade with her at its heart then the world is a safer place for it. He decides he will dodge that bullet until he absolutely can't any more, confident now that it is her pride and worry for him driving her current actions and not the result of Ichigo running his mouth. He finds the trace of remorse he feels for causing her distress is a surprisingly easy thing to bear. A black eye and a sulk he is equipped to handle. The alternative, not so much.

"You done?"

She looks up sharply, and he quirks a tattooed eyebrow at her. "You can look after yourself, that it?" The brief widening of her eyes tells him all he needs to know, and he pats himself on the back for being so astute at this hour. "You don't have to answer. I get it."

"... You do."

"Yep."

The look he receives is wary. Puzzled. Sharp enough to realise anything that goes down so easily with him is generally too good to be true. Good, he thinks again, affecting a bored expression that is far from the truth. Let her think she's safe. He is well past his threshold for kicking back and taking this reaming like a good little punching bag when her own admission comes with such a bullshit price tag.

His hand snaps out. He grabs her by the scruff of her collar and yanks her in so close they're almost nose to nose, secretly delighting in her undignified yelp as he cuffs her over the head – part revenge, part trying to bludgeon some sense into her. "Now who's being the idiot!"

"W-what-?" She scrambles to free herself, too startled to be mad yet, but he channels all his strength into keeping her there, fuck his still hurting body. He imagines this is what it feels like to get old.

"R-renji!"

"You know damn well!" He raps his knuckle on her forehead. "You don't want me looking out for you because you don't want me t'get hurt? You think I'd just stand there and let some asshole beat you to a bloody pulp if I can do something about it? _You're _the fucking imbecile!"

Her glare is in fine form as he drops her to her backside, but pride doesn't allow her to back down. Her hands go immediately to her hips, eyes murderous. "Doing something about it is enitrely different from taking the hit for me!"

_... Huh._

An inappropriately wolfish grin very nearly eats his face, but again he smothers it. So he _is _on the right track.

What was that old chestnut? "You worry too freakin' much. It wasn't just for you." He leans back on an arm, closing his eyes to make the lie more convincing. It comes easily after years of practise, and before she gets the chance to peg him for it, he peels open a lazy eyelid to pin her with an accusing look. "Any of us would protect the other, and ya know it!"

Somehow this statement only fuels her fire. "Of course they would. But how many times have _you_? One of these days the luck you picked up on the streets is going to run out, and you won't walk away with just a few scars!"

"'On the streets'?" he parrots, unable to help himself.

"Yes! You can't keep stubbornly winging everything like you always have and expect everything to always turn out okay!"

"How the hell do I 'wing everything'? C'mon, Rukia. We're not rookies any more. Your brother would have done the exact damn thing in that situation!"

"Nii-sama is not a good example to follow in that regard!" she explodes. "You are his _Lieutenant_, Renji, not his shadow!"

He sucks in a sharp breath, his readymade retort dying on his lips. Judging by the way she goes still her outburst surprises her, too - and for good reason. With such a simple statement she has upended his argument, and it brings him as close to true anger as he has been in awhile. He struggles to stifle it, but it is too late to hide a flash of annoyance; she can't know that without trying she has awoken a fear buried so deep he almost forgot it existed.

Kuchiki Byakuya. Bane of his fucking afterlife.

Without his permission his mind races defiantly ahead of him, paranoia spurning it on. It is true that he is deeply ingrained in the running of all things Sixth Squad. It is part of his responsibility as Lieutenant, and any Vice Captain worth his salt would show an interest in the way the gears turn. Any good subordinate should also analyze and emulate the conduct of his Captain to better himself, and this is particularly true in his case. It is a basic rule of combat that you cannot defeat a man without at least knowing a bit about how he ticks.

But this is where he draws the line. He didn't jump in front of that lunatic's attack because he aspired to be like Kuchiki Byakuya, he knows that damn much, and he hopes gravely she knows it, too, otherwise it is a bigger kick in the guts than even he is prepared for. It is with this thought that he absolutely refuses to admit that he might have, in any way, grown to admire or respect his Captain. The concept is one of few that terrifies him, and a psychological nightmare for another day. It does dawn on him that the truth to that statement probably varies depending on who one spoke to and their relationship to him, but he ignores that too. A whole crate of sake wouldn't be enough to touch that inconsistency with a ten foot pole.

Besides, her little outburst brings with it a defiance that he wouldn't dare pursue from her outside this moment, encouraged in all likelihood by the blow to his head. He has always assumed by default that she approves of his attempts at model conduct, how he tries – many times even succeeds – at not sticking out like a sore thumb, because she so admires the same distinguished qualities in her brother. And maybe this is true for the most part. But now he finds himself entertaining the convenient alternative. He wonders if it's possible that, in the same way he thinks she is at her best when she is explosive and sharp, when there are a few chips on her shoulder unchecked by a haughty guise and a suffocating kimono, that she too dislikes the aspects he appears to have inherited from his Captain.

The thought grows on him. She could be so hard to read when she got caught up in her brother worship it meant he often lost sight of the forest for the trees. Clearly. Wasn't it he who had gone on thinking, for nearly forty years, that she'd truly _wanted _to sever all ties to the remnants of her old family the moment she'd been taken in under the Kuchiki clan's daunting wing? It is the first time he recalls feeling so smug about being wrong. Now is without doubt the second.

_Or she would just rather you didn't act like a bonehead, perhaps?_

_The trauma has clearly addled your brain._

He decides to store this information away somewhere it may one day be useful, unexpectedly pleased and feeling generous because of it.

"Right. First off," he levels with her, trying to appear stern amidst the swathe of children's cushions that are no doubt Urahara's sick idea of revenge, "I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that. My head fucking hurts enough without you throwing crap like that at me." Deliberate - and welcome - ignorance, they both know full-well. "Second, you can't go and get pissy every time I need a band-aid, or we're gonna have a problem. We're shinigami, for cryin' out loud. A bit of bloodshed is give and take."

"I'm not talking about 'a bit' of bloodshed," she needles, "and you know it."

If she is relieved she has skirted disaster she isn't showing it. He massages his aching temples, beyond caring if he appears annoyed. He has kept up better than he expected he would given the circumstances, but being ambushed the moment he wakes up is wearing him thin. It is hard to stay on your toes when you're flat on your back, and she knocks him on his ass the best of days.

"Are you still harping on?" He sits up fully now, hissing through gritted teeth and keeping the sheets pulled closely to his chest, traumitizing though they are. He is not shy by nature, but it is in his own best interests to keep the bandages she has no doubt seen concealed for now; she needs the chance to get wound up again like he needs a hole in the head. "What do you want me to say, Rukia? 'I'm sorry'? Or maybe, 'That type of crap won't happen again?' C'mon, we're a bit smarter than that."

"_Some _of us are smarter than that," she shoots back.

He blames the concussion for walking him straight into that one. "All right," he placates, plastering a grin on, relieved she's finally seeing some humour in the situation, even if it is aimed at him. "_Some _of us are smarter than that."

"Better."

Her nitpicking is a sign she is backing off, but the disapproving frown hasn't been entirely erased. He takes a careful breath as he restlessly readjusts himself, trying to ignore it and the unsteadiness of the arm propping him up, but finds he can't help himself just like he can't keep his hand from swiping up the piece of candy Jinta missed in his rush out the door.

He scrutinises her as he pops it into his mouth. At least the wind seems to be gone from her sails. In the absense of anger she is fiddling with the unused rolls of bandages and medical tape, stacking them in an odd arrangement that - he knows - there is only one other person in the world who could truly appreciate. He shakes his head at the distraction. Has it finally dawned on her that - what? What she asks is unreasonable? That they're going around in circles? She regrets revealing too much of herself? He is aware of how badly he wants to avoid that last one.

"All right," he blurts before he can stop himself, "I'll bite. Was there a point to this?"

"Isn't there always?"

"I mean," he amends, picking a candy wrapper at random and placing it mock-artfully on her sculpture, "besides the usual crap?"

"Very funny."

She continues her task, unphased by his interruption, but he can tell she is thinking about it. He watches as she steadies her creation, adjusts a few pieces here and there, then sits back, inspecting it critically for flaws. Whatever imperfection she finds must be unacceptable, because she is quick to knock it over with an insolent flick of her foot. The abomination tumbles back into the chaos it came from, and she returns her attention to him.

"Is it so far-fetched?" she asks, using the heel of her hand to exert enough pressure to ease him back to the ground. The gesture is gentle despite its insistence. "I just want you to use your head now and then. For something _other _than 'the usual'," she corrects hastily, tapping a bandage on his head with a meaningful look.

_Tell her you can't help it that's all it's good for._

He snorts, trades his tone of reluctant inquisitiveness for a wry, "We all know that isn't my strong suit." Sees all the signs of her beginning to get agitated again, and realises in time he has to be careful not to make his words appear as a brush-off, just like he has to suck it up and endure the mothering until he's out of the woods. It is for some reason important to her that he take this seriously.

His lips only twitch in the slightest as he reaches up and ruffles her hair in that obnoxiously affectionate way she so loves to hate. "An' if I say I'll give it a shot?"

She puffs the tousled strands of hair out of her face, trying to keep up the appearance of irritation but failing miserably; the upward curve to her lips is unmistakable as she lobs a roll of bandages at him in a most un-Kuchiki-like way, and he is reminded once more of the greater good as she admits, "I guess miracles happen."

Zabimaru - as always - gets the last word, and just quietly he is inclined to agree.

_Who is she kidding? Not those kinds of miracles._

_**Fin.**_


End file.
